Lost and Found
by whilewewereyetsinners
Summary: "They hadn't always been poor. She couldn't remember it, but Sigrid told her stories of a time before famine and illness and war when their family had included parents and a brother, and their bellies were always full. It sounded like a fairy tale. Tilda could hardly imagine it." Tilda loses a glove and gains so much more. AU, eventual FilixSigrid. For Figrid February on Tumblr.


**Lost and Found**

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"Oh, oh no!" Tilda made a desperate grab for her glove, nearly toppling over the edge of the bridge and following it into the rushing waters below.

She twisted her sole remaining glove between her hands and squeezed her eyes shut. She was not going to cry. She was not going to cry. She was _not_.

"Here, darling, take these."

She opened her eyes to see Sigrid holding a pair of gloves out to her, the marks of the seams clearly visible on her sister's hands.

"I'm not going to take yours!"

"Yes, you are." Sigrid smiled at her as she forced them on her hands. They hung huge and loosely, and she had to curl her fingers to keep them from falling off. "Your hands are still growing. You'll need them more than I this winter."

Tilda swallowed against the sudden sickness in her stomach. "You could make me mittens. Unravel a pair of socks?"

Sigrid's determined smile faltered. "Perhaps. I'll have to see what we have. Now, come help me choose a few vegetables? I've found a lovely piece of shank bone and I was thinking we could have soup this week."

OoOoOoOoOoO

They hadn't always been poor. She couldn't remember it, but Sigrid told her stories of a time before famine and illness and war when their family had included parents and a brother, and their bellies were always full. They had far more than they needed, Sigrid said, so much that they were able to share with their neighbors, and their clothes were warm and beautiful.

It sounded like a fairy tale. Tilda could barely imagine it.

Famine and illness had taken had taken the mother and brother she couldn't remember and war had taken the father she could. He'd been lord of their city, and Tilda had heard all the songs about him: when the enemy marched against them he'd led the city in defense, rallying them again and again, and then, when all seemed lost, making a final valiant stand that won the day.

Won the day, but lost him his life.

And then they'd lost their home.

Da's distant cousin had come to assume the lordship. At first he'd said they could stay. But a few days later, after a conversation that Sigrid still refused to talk about, a conversation that ended with a red handprint on Cousin Alfrid's cheek, he'd changed his tune.

He hadn't cast them out with nothing, the way the villain so often does in books. He'd given them a small cottage near the river and allowed them to take what belonged to them. But nothing more, no mementos of their parents, not even the portraits of their family.

Tilda had wanted to go see the portraits, the last time their cousin had an open day at the house, but Sigrid couldn't afford the entrance fee.

People helped them at first. Knowing that Sigrid wouldn't want charity, they furtively left gifts of food and supplies. Tilda remembers coming home to find paper- or cloth-wrapped bundles propped against their front door, and the angry way Sigrid would sometimes cry as she put things away.

The bundles have gotten smaller and less frequent as time has gone by. Tilda hears the people talk and knows it isn't because they've been forgotten, but that their old friends also have little. The city struggles under Cousin Alfrid's rule.

Almost five years have gone by since their father died, and Tilda was old enough now to see all the things she hadn't seen before. How Sigrid gave her the largest servings of food and the warmest blankets. How when Sigrid said she wasn't hungry it was because there wasn't enough food for both of them. How Sigrid protected her from the worst of the chores and any of her worries. How Cousin Alfrid grew florid and fat as Sigrid grew pale and thin.

Tilda was old enough to hate him now.

She was old enough to fear that her sister would give of herself until there was nothing left to keep her alive, even as their father had.

She was old enough to realize that despite her attempts to help she was more of a burden than a blessing.

And now, she'd gone and lost one of her gloves, and either her sister's hands would chap until they bled or her sister's toes would freeze because her heaviest socks had become mittens. For Tilda knew there was no possible way Sigrid would let her be the one to go without.

She didn't know what to do. But she knew she had to do something.

OoOoOoOoOoO

She heard them coming before she saw them, their laughter rising above the hubbub of the market sending a jolt of irrational anger through her.

"Are you sure you want to stop, brother? You know what the date is."

"Why should the day make me not want to stop? I have a purse full of coins and unlimited kisses. And I'm hungry."

"I suppose you have a saddlebag full of fabric and gloves as well?" the other asked sarcastically.

"Why would I need those? If someone proposes today, clearly it is because they want a kiss!" They came around the bend and Tilda could see the fairer of the two roll his eyes. "Come, Fili, I'm starving. I'll never last until we get home."

The man sighed. "Fine, Kili, if we must." He pointed at the darker-haired man. "But I hope when you get proposed to they only want gloves or fabric, or a rose! Ha! Good luck finding one of those in February."

"Impossible!" the one called Kili declared, his eyes dancing. They turned their horses into the inn yard and Tilda ran after them before she could second-guess herself.

"Wait! Please wait!" They watched in surprise as she skidded to a stop in front of them. "Please, I heard you talking. If someone proposes to you today you have to give her gloves?"

The dark-haired one looked amused, but the other replied graciously, "If a lady proposes on this day and is refused, she may claim recompense. Fabric for a skirt, a pair of gloves, a rose, or a kiss and a coin."

"It's not charity then? It's payment deserved?"

"No, not charity."

He sounded guarded and both were frowning a little now, but Tilda decided to ignore that. She closed her eyes and blurted, "Will you marry me?"

There was a long silence. She peeked at them through slitted lids and the dark-haired one (Kili, she thought his name was) asked almost gleefully, "Do you want a kiss?"

His companion snapped, "No, you imbecile, look at her hands. She wants gloves."

Tilda hid her hands behind her back. "Only if it's not charity. We don't beg. And they're not really for me. Well, they are, but only because these don't fit. I'd much rather you got Sigrid a new pair than me. But if you get me a pair then she can have these back and her hands won't freeze. Or her feet."

They blinked at her, then Kili crouched down to be at eye level and asked conspiratorially, "How do gloves keep her feet from freezing? Does she wear them sometimes on her hands and sometimes on her feet? Or, oh! are they magic?"

She couldn't repress a giggle. "No, of course not. But it's either I wear her gloves all winter or she pulls apart a pair of socks to knit me mittens. And I _know_ her, she'll pull apart her warmest pair."

The two men exchanged a glance, then Kili said grandly, "Well. In that case, I fear I must refuse your tempting offer of marriage and purchase you a pair of gloves." He swept her a magnificent bow, worthy of a queen, making her smile in delight. "But first, we should introduce ourselves. I am Kili, of the city of Erebor, and this is my brother Fili."

She gave her best curtsey, a little wobbly but she hoped good enough. "I'm Tilda, of Dale. It's a pleasure to meet…" Her voice trailed off and she took a half-step back at the arrested looks on their faces.

" _Lady_ Tilda? Sister of Lady Sigrid? Daughters of Lord Bard?" Kili asked slowly.

There was a darkness growing over the blond one's face and she took another small step backwards. "Yes?"

Fili asked evenly, "And why does the Lady of Dale have to choose between frozen fingers or frozen toes? Does the current Lord of Dale not help you?"

Tilda took another tiny step away, frightened of his expression. "No. Well, he gave us the cottage, though I think he said it was our parents' money bought it. But lots of people helped us at first—they would leave things for us when we weren't home: food and cloth and other things. That's why Sigrid says we can't ever ask for anything, because people are already sacrificing to give us so much it would be wrong to ask for more. And we have a home, even though it's wood and not very warm, when many other people do not, so we should be thankful. And I am thankful, and I do try to help! I'm learning the fancy embroidery Sigrid does so I can help her fill orders, though there aren't so many now as there were a year or two ago, and I'm learning to garden and maybe we can keep chickens and... I do foolish things sometimes, like lose my glove in the river, but I _truly do_ try to help her."

Fili had his eyes closed and was breathing slowly through his nose like he was trying to stop himself being sick, but there was a muscle jumping in his cheek that made her think he was angry. She took another small step backwards.

Kili smiled at her, but it was less bright and didn't reach his eyes. "Losing your glove wasn't foolish, Tilda. It was an accident."

He said it with such certainty, even though he hadn't been there to see it happen, and it made tears smart in her eyes because he just didn't understand. "It _was_ foolish because Sigrid is the one who has to suffer for it. She's always the one who has to."

He nodded sagely. "Gives you the best of everything, does she?"

Tilda sniffled.

He crouched down by her again. "Let me tell you a secret, little one. Fili's my older brother and he's the same way with me. Older brothers and sisters, that's what they do. It's part of the job of being older, and it's not your fault. Your job, as the younger one, is to help them out, and it sounds like you're much better at that than I am. Mostly I just tease Fili and try to make him laugh, but he says that's not very helpful at all."

"Sigrid likes it when I make her laugh," Tilda said doubtfully.

"See? You're much better at this younger sibling thing than I. You'll have to give me lessons. But first," he stood and extended a hand to her, "you need to show me where I can buy you some gloves."

Fili added in a tone Tilda didn't quite like, "And then we can find your sister."

OoOoOoOoOoO

As it happened, Sigrid found them first.

Tilda was smiling at her hands, flexing her fingers inside the thick felt-lined leather of her new gloves that were _so warm_ , her hands hadn't been so warm since summer, when she heard a panicked voice calling her name. Before she could do more than look up, Sigrid barreled into her, knocking them both to their knees, and threw her arms around her.

"Tilda, oh Valar, Tilda, you scared me." She pulled back and gave her a little shake. "Don't ever wander off like that again!"

"I'll try not to," Tilda replied earnestly. "But oh! Sigrid, look at my gloves! Here, you can have yours back now, and you won't be cold."

Sigrid let her gloves drop into her lap and asked slowly, "Where did you get those?"

"From Mr. Kili. I asked him to marry me and since he said no he had to buy me gloves!" She frowned at her sister's horrified expression. "It wasn't charity, Sigrid. It's a proper payment. I asked first."

Her words didn't convey the reassurance she hoped. Her sister stood and brushed off her skirts, saying, "Thank you very much, Mr. Kili, but we can't possibly accept."

"Oh, you must! It was the only proper thing to do, and really, what am I to do with such a small pair of gloves?"

There was a long, frozen silence.

"Sigrid?" Tilda asked anxiously.

Sigrid opened her eyes. " _Lord_ Kili. How nice to see you again." She saw who was standing behind him and paled further. "And Lord Fili."

"I have your basket," Fili said, scowling into it. She reached to take it from him but he held on. "I'll be happy to carry it for you. Surely you aren't finished shopping."

She yanked it away from him. "I am, thank you. Quite finished."

"That isn't very much food," he snapped accusingly.

"It's none of your business, but it will make a lovely soup."

"Will it make enough for you to eat or only enough for your sister?"

Sigrid threw a betrayed look at Tilda, who protested, "I didn't tell him that, honest!"

"She didn't need to tell me, she's simply far less starved than you are, and I _know_ you, Sigrid." He raked her with a scathing look and continued in low, angry tones, "Or I thought I did. Because I'm trying to understand how the Sigrid I knew would ever allow this to happen, why the Sigrid I knew would rather starve than come to me for help. So maybe I didn't really know you the way I thought I did."

Tilda watched in terrified amazement as her sister hissed back in his face, "The Sigrid you knew was sixteen, had a five year old sister, a drafty house, a small box of cheap jewelry, and nothing else! You were barely eighteen and wounded from the battles in your own city, as was your brother and your uncle. If you think that I would have imposed on you and your family at such a time, then you're right! You really didn't know me at all."

They stood glaring at each other, chests heaving, while Kili looked so amused that Tilda crept over to stand by him, where it was safer. "Well," he said mildly, "now that's settled, can we please go get some dinner?"

Sigrid said stiffly, "Certainly you may. It was very nice to see you again, Lord Kili."

"Oh, but not me, I suppose?" snapped Fili. Tilda was the only one to respond in any way, which she did by sliding behind Kili a little bit.

"My dear Lady Sigrid, of course you and your sister are invited." He talked over her protests in a friendly way that made Tilda's eyes widen. "No, I insist. And if you remember me at all, you'll remember that I always get my way."

Sigrid gave in with an ungracious nod and Tilda stared at Kili with amazement as he hustled them all across the street and into a private parlor in the inn, ordered a huge meal which put a gleam in the eye of the landlord and made Tilda's mouth water, then set two chairs into a corner of the room and pointed at her sister and his brother. "You two. Sit here until you straighten this out. Lady Tilda and I will be playing fivestones over by the fire."

"You're bossy," Tilda told him admiringly.

"Good thing, too, or who knows when they'd get this sorted. Now, just ignore them," he said, as voices started to rise behind him. "It's not always a bad thing when people argue. Sometimes when things are important it hurts to talk about them, but it doesn't mean they don't need to be talked about."

She nodded and set to playing the game. She tried her best to ignore the argument in the corner, but Sigrid's broken, "You never came. Why did you never come?" caught her attention. She stared at her sister's tears and the way Fili was holding her hand and speaking to her with a low intensity until Kili rattled the stones at her commandingly.

"Why didn't he come?" she whispered. "If she mattered so much to him?"

"Your cousin had his letters returned. Fili believed she didn't wish to see him."

"You're angry."

Kili tossed the stones in the air, managing to catch four on the back of his hand. "Yes."

"Not at Sigrid?"

"Of course not. Nor at you."

"Cousin Alfrid, then," Tilda said with no small amount of satisfaction.

"Yes, your cousin Alfrid has a great many things to answer for. Here you are, your turn."

She tossed the stones, catching two. "More than just the letters?"

"Yes. And that's all I'm telling you. I don't want your sister to turn her temper on me next." He gave a exaggerated shudder and she giggled.

They kept playing until Tilda realized just how suspiciously silent it was in the corner. She glanced over and her eyes widened.

"Kili!" she hissed. "They're kissing! Do you think Sigrid proposed and he refused?"

Kili chuckled. "No, I don't think so. Oh dear, I've dropped one. It's your turn."

They continued their game until the food came. And it was _delicious_.

* * *

 **A/N: This was written for the Figrid February Leap Day prompt, which stated that in Britain and Ireland it is tradition for the woman to propose to the man on this day, and if he refuses he must give her fabric for a skirt, gloves, a rose, or 1 pound and a kiss. This was intended to be a sweet, fluffy little thing and to be honest I'm kind of bewildered that it ended up like this. LOL Please review!  
**


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